


A thousand photographs that show your heart

by Baryshnikov



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Asexual Tom, M/M, Photography, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-13
Updated: 2018-10-13
Packaged: 2019-08-01 05:38:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16278752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Baryshnikov/pseuds/Baryshnikov
Summary: He would never admit it, but Tom rather liked people taking pictures of him, as long it was for the right reasons and Abraxas always took them for the right reasons.





	A thousand photographs that show your heart

The first time he’d taken his photo, Tom had turned too fast and glared at him for longer than either of them had been comfortable with. Initially, he’d been suspicious and perhaps a little curious as to why Malfoy was taking photos, he expected them to be of everyone, but it soon became obvious he was the sole object of Malfoy’s strange obsession. He never acknowledged it, half-hoping that Malfoy would simply get bored like he usually did. Apparently, when you had such obscene wealth to your name everything became boring rather quickly, not that Tom usually complained, but then Malfoy’s hobbies rarely involved him so completely. So, Tom didn’t stop him, he just let him, ignoring the quiet clicking and the occasional flash, there was no harm in a few photos unless those photos, of course, ended up with someone they shouldn’t, but Tom doubted even Malfoy would be daring enough to risk that. If you hurt a fellow Slytherin, you were out of the club. Slytherins stuck together like that, perhaps too much, though the only ones complaining were those excluded from such exclusive cliques.  
He’d honestly expected the photos to stop, for him to be left alone after the few days, maybe weeks at the absolute longest, but now it had been months. Months of Malfoy’s fingers twitching and months of clicking, months of knowing his presence was being intimately recorded. Tom learnt then that Malfoys could be very persistent if the cause was good enough, and apparently, he was such a cause.  
If the other saw anything strange, they did not say so. Perhaps they thought the same as he, that Malfoy was temporarily enamoured with the glamour of an image lasting forever. But there was something in his eyes, it didn’t make Tom nervous per se, more expectant, like the constant temptation Malfoy subject himself to, might just one day boil over and engulf everyone whom it may have concerned.  
~  
Tom stretched, curving his spine just so, a dark silhouette against a grey sky. Malfoy liked it when he thought Tom didn’t know he was watching, forever clicking away from the corner. Tom liked the simplicity in it all, liked that Malfoy liked him even when all he was doing was sitting and reading, leaning gently against the side of the chair. Soon their solitude would be disturbed, and Malfoy would have to pretend to be interested in what Tom was reading if he wanted to stay beside him. He had to give it to him, Malfoy was good at pretending to be interested in things he really wasn’t. Lying was one of Malfoy’s better talents, watching his pretty tongue lace the world with dishonesty was rather satisfying, made him shiver to think that people believed his sweet mouth for no other reason than it belonged to Malfoy. As a rule, Malfoys were an honest, integral, moral family, or so everyone liked to believe. Under that brilliant shining surface, they really weren’t so pretty, especially not Malfoy who seemed to have perfected that cruel malevolence that everyone mistook for ambition. Watching people fall under his spell was really quite lovely, he almost wished that Malfoy could capture that in one of his photos, it would be nice to see the moment they realised they had made a tragic error. But Malfoy didn’t like to watch them, he liked to watch him, so Tom let him watch while he could before the others could see the secret Malfoy was becoming less inclined to hide. He would take photos more openly, more obviously directing the camera at Tom waiting for him to smile. Sometimes Tom indulged him, other times he stared on, blank and uninterested. It annoyed Malfoy no end and Tom would be lying if he said that didn’t give him a little satisfaction.  
~  
Gradually Tom became accustomed to those photos and to Malfoy taking them, they reminded him he was perfect, and, more importantly, they reminded Malfoy of that fact. Gave his eyes no reason to stray to people that weren’t so picture perfect. Malfoy’s fixation could actually be quite useful when used properly and Tom always made sure he used opportunities properly.  
He tilted his neck back and looked straight at Malfoy, perfect features, perfect half smile. The one Malfoy read what he liked in, saw things that weren’t there, things Tom would never be bothered to correct him about. The sun was streaming through the lake casting a lovely green glow when he sat by the window. Perhaps it was rather pathetic to be so deliberately seeking out places that Malfoy would like to take pictures, but he did. He had started paying attention to the lighting, where the shadows would best highlight the bones in his face, how the lights should be to reflect the full depth of his eyes. He even thought about the angle at which he stood, how he curved his back, where he placed his hands. Every position so carefully choreographed for Malfoy’s satisfaction. It was unbelievably fake, not that Malfoy ever seemed to notice, he was always smiling, always content with whatever Tom decided to give him, but he didn’t doubt soon such simple gestures wouldn’t be enough.  
~  
The window was steamed up and it was cold outside. Through the blurred panes, Tom could just see the landscape drenched with rain, making the shapes muddle together, like some of Malfoy’s more experimental photos. Across the room was Malfoy with his camera, the lens unblinking, watching his every move. When the camera was on him, every movement was once again deliberate, the gentle stretch of his leg, hand splayed on his thigh, head against the window. Malfoy lapped it up like a man first tasting the sweetness of water. So eager, so needy, endlessly staring at the sharpness of his jawline and the curve of his lips. He knew Malfoy wanted to touch them, wanted to touch all of him, everyone who bothered to look knew that. It was dripping from him like water, so painfully obvious what Malfoy wanted to do if Tom would let him.  
On that day with the mist at the windows and the winter cold filling the space by the glass, Malfoy had come closer, far closer than he normally would. They’d looked at each other, the quiet patter of the rain against the window the only sound. Malfoy had reached to touch his face and Tom had flinched. Malfoy’s fingers had stopped. After a moment they slid into Tom’s hair, stroking just above the ear and down his neck. It was something more than friendly, the type of touch that would provoke stares and whispers and rumours if anyone saw. No one saw.  
It was terribly intimate, Abraxas’ knuckles against his cheek, hand turning slowly until his palm rested lightly, ready to be snatched at any second, whilst always looking down at Tom with those big pleading eyes. He had let Abraxas sit opposite him, legs beside each other, hands occasionally touching. Tom let him think of the possibilities but never anything more.  
Although he did ask to see Abraxas’ photos more often. Leaned into Abraxas’ body, let his hands linger too long, was more willing to turn his head just right and smile just how Abraxas liked. He put on another skin in those moments, became the person Abraxas so desperately wanted him to be. In some ways, Tom liked that person too, but he was just an illusion, a dream that would never truly materialise no matter how hard Abraxas wished for it.  
~  
He remembered the photos when he’d first given in to Abraxas’ persistence, let him truly look at his face, taking as many pictures as he liked. Let him cut his fingers on the sharp lines of his features and soak himself in Tom’s perfection. Abraxas had been content with those photos at first, and he took so many, but soon he, openly, admitted they weren’t what he wanted. He wanted what Tom had never given anyone, he wanted to look inside him, see into his soul and find a way to photograph what he found. He wanted to see the indistinctions that collided in Tom’s mind, wanted to see the world in that painful monochrome; undoubtedly Abraxas wanted to be the colour, the one to forever stain Tom’s world with infinite shades and tints of feeling.  
He could still feel Abraxas’ colour-stained hands against his shoulder, pushing him onto his back, soft thighs against his own, fingers hovering above his heart. The cool eye of the lens always on him, searching for something he was yet to give. When Abraxas had finally abandoned the camera, Tom could see how much he wanted to kiss him, so he’d closed his eyes and relinquished that control. Mind disappearing elsewhere as Abraxas did what he liked. Tom could still vaguely feel Abraxas hands exploring every ridge and every gully through his shirt, trying to find the thing that wasn’t there. Abraxas’ kisses were gentle on his jaw and down his neck, always careful, always respectful, always reverent. He’d laid there in the dark, black vision occasionally seeing shadows, with someone he didn’t care about kissing his lips. Abraxas’ breath was warm so were his fingers, he was so wanting, craving a connection he’d never had before. Tom tried to be interested, tried so very hard to care but as he lay there listless and apathetic, he couldn’t help but wonder if there was something wrong with Abraxas; a reason for his neediness, for his constant desire to touch him. For a moment there was a flicker in his mind that it was he himself who had the problem, but how could that be so when his mind was so much clearer, so much sharper than Abraxas’ that was so constantly fogged with desire?  
~  
Soon Abraxas became less tense, less nervous around him. He became more inclined to take so very many pictures, not afraid to ask Tom to move, angle himself better. So he came to be splayed against the bed, arms outstretched like a crucified martyr, neck back, just enough vulnerability to make Abraxas feel almost guilty for his blatant invasion of privacy. The cold light of the moon glinting off every sharp edge. It was so easy to lie there, letting Abraxas take what he wanted from the moment.  
Once Abraxas had been too conceited though, leaning over him, thumbs sliding into his belt loops, he was the least subtle person Tom had ever met. Needless to say, Abraxas didn’t remember that night nearly as clearly as Tom did. He was probably aware of something, that his memories were – off, that his head ached, and something felt wrong. But he wouldn’t remember how or why; wouldn’t remember being stunned, wouldn’t remember Tom picking through his head, just adjusting everything slightly. He’d been tempted to do something particularly nasty, something Abraxas would remember, but he hadn’t. He was waiting for the right moment, for Abraxas to be begging for it then Tom would quite happily carve his name into his skin, leave a scar so deep in Abraxas’ psyche that he could never forget him. But that was a long way away. For now, he had to face the inevitable: that Abraxas wanted to touch and taste him, and, at some point, he would have to let him do just that.  
~  
Those were the photos he didn’t like. Him lying on his front, Abraxas fingers smoothing along the arch of his spine, slow and steady and so painfully deliberate. His own hands clutching at the sheets, hair so dark against the white. The slow clenching of his fingers and the endless shifting of his shoulders telling everyone what Abraxas was doing.  
He felt too open in those moments, no way to hide the shaking of his fingers, no way to stop Abraxas’ persistent hands dragging him further from reality, making his vision blur into black as he lost himself to the numbing buzz of sensations. He hated the flush on his cheeks and the way it spilled down his neck and blossomed across his collarbone ready for Abraxas to dip his fingers into the hollows and taste the heat of his skin. The pictures showed it so well, a glorious vividness showing the world everything he didn’t want them to see.  
He honestly hated the needy shapes his mouth made as he moaned and the way his fingers tangled in his hair and the rapid rising of his chest. Hated the curve of his back and the curve of his neck when Abraxas’ hand slid between his thighs and drew enticing circles that made him bite his tongue. The furrow between his brows and the way he bit his lip, anxious, desperate, so very corporeal, and captured to perfection. He was so weak, so completely at mercy to Abraxas’ hands on his waist, fingers trailing up his stomach, bumping along his ribs, nails leaving heavy pink lines Abraxas would later trace with his tongue, always leaving thin strips of wetness that made him shiver. He hated Abraxas’ feather-soft kisses, the way his dry lips skimmed across his skin and made him squirm, impatient for Abraxas to stop toying, and let him have a moment to taste pure satisfaction. He didn’t like those photographs, didn’t like the side of him they showed. Didn’t like the weakness in his eyes or the desperation on his lips.  
The only picture he liked from that collection was Abraxas’ favourite, the one he didn’t know how he had taken. Tom lying on top, mouth just below Abraxas’ jaw, hair falling his eyes, one hand holding Abraxas’ wrist against the sheets, the other one pressed between them. Abraxas’ head tipped back, cold lips parted, murmuring heady words, eyes closed, brows creased, cheeks strewn with damask petals, hair draped carelessly across the pillow. Their bodies rocking so slowly until Abraxas’ mouth opened wider and his whole body was shuddering. He’d whispered such lovely words in Tom’s ear, breath too hot and fingers too cold, heart throbbing. They’d laid there together, so close, so intimate, hands meeting and bodies melting into one, and for a moment Tom had forgotten why he was really there. It was pathetic to be so sentimental, but Abraxas did that to people, made them care about him even while they despised everything he stood for. A very small part of Tom liked Abraxas, liked the way he took what was his and flaunted it to the world, liked the way he commanded people, moulding them into things they never thought they would be. But for all his admiration he couldn’t like all that Abraxas brought out in him. His future held no place for sentimentality, no place for weakness.  
He told himself he would leave Abraxas and his silly photographs behind, sever their liaison and never talk about it, but Abraxas had a way about him, a horrible, deceitful way of twisting his intentions, making him keep him beside him. Abraxas used those pretty pictures and honied words to keep himself in favour. It was underhand, manipulative and so typically Slytherin, Tom was almost impressed. He didn’t really know why he let Abraxas stay so close, he didn’t let anyone else, but no one else humoured him so well.  
Tom supposed it indulged a narcissistic fantasy, but was that so wrong? Abraxas always whispered that it wasn’t, Abraxas always whispered such wonderful things after he taken what he wanted. Such powerful extravagant words that made him feel he could do anything. Abraxas lying close, fingers drawing circles on his back, telling him how special he was, how exceptional. He could listen to that forever, Abraxas’ voice in his ear, letting him indulge his grandiose visions. The camera never clicked in those moments, they just felt too intimate to ever document. No matter how many photographs people had, no one could ever understand what those moments truly looked like, what they truly tasted like, what they truly felt like. The only people who understood were Tom and Abraxas, and neither of them was willing to share such a pleasure.

**Author's Note:**

> I sort of feel like I should apologise for inundating this ship with my fics, so sorry for that everyone.


End file.
